1912 (22 page)

Shirase was determined that his exploration of the south would help show that Japan was a world power: it could compete for the last unexplored continent. Success in Antarctica would announce that Japan had rejoined the global community.

Shirase came to Antarctica by a circuitous route. In 1875 Japan had acquired the Chishima Islands from Russia in return for recognising their neighbour's rights elsewhere. Now known as the Kuril Islands, this archipelago stretches from the northern coast of Japan's second-largest island, Hokkaido, all the way up to southern Kamchatka, in far-east Russia. Four years after joining the military, Shirase found himself in the Chishima Islands on his first polar expedition, led by one Naritada Gunji. Between 1883 and 1885 the party would explore the new territory and establish an all-Japanese colony. Poor planning, though, led to the deaths of ten of its members during the first winter, and the following summer Gunji left to fight in the First Sino-Japanese
War, leaving Shirase to spend the second winter with five new expedition members.

Things did not improve. Of the six men, three died from scurvy and the survivors pulled out the following August. Shirase was incensed at Gunji's disorganisation; they had achieved little, at the cost of many lives. He wrote a stinging attack, publicly accusing the former expedition commander of poor leadership. Yet Shirase stayed in the army, and became a veteran of the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–1905. He was one of the few Japanese figures who could claim significant polar experience, invaluable for his planned Antarctic expedition.

Shirase petitioned the government in early 1910 to support his proposed South Pole venture. ‘I believe it is the proper course of action to boldly accept this challenge [of polar exploration],' he wrote. ‘The powers of the world ridicule the Empire of Japan, saying we Japanese are barbarians who are strong and brave in warfare, but timid and cowardly when it comes to the realm of science. For the sake of bushido [loosely translated, honour] we must correct this regrettable situation.'

It was time to use science to show how progressive Japan was. ‘For this reason, from July or August of this year, I humbly propose to…set out to explore the Antarctic accompanied by scientists of various specializations. In addition to scientific contributions, within three years I vow to raise our Japanese Imperial flag at the South Pole and to solve this most formidable challenge of the world'—and to ‘expand the nation's territories and become a rich and powerful nation'.

It was a bold vision—or foolhardy, depending on your point of view. Certainly the Japanese government was not particularly impressed. Shirase later wrote that the response was: ‘First, we don't have the money and second exploration isn't exactly in our line.' Eventually Shirase argued round the doubters, and was offered a healthy ¥15,000 and a vessel from the naval fleet. First
impressions die hard, however, and the support did not materialise: the navy was unhappy with the idea of giving one of its ships to an army man and the government's promised money never came through.

‘I might as well argue with dumb Buddhist idols as with Government officials,' Shirase later commented. He turned to others to help finance the trip. In a canny move, he went to Count Shigenobu Okuma, one of the young samurai who had started the Meiji Restoration, later becoming finance minister and then prime minister. By this time well into his seventies, this national treasure was excited by Shirase's plan. Ignoring government ridicule and hoping to overcome widespread uncertainty, Shirase made a public call for funding. Speaking to a large and enthusiastic crowd in Tokyo in July 1910, Okuma announced the formation of the Antarctic Expedition Supporters' Association, with himself as president.

With Okuma's backing, public funding started to flow in. The government, though, seemed to take delight in trying to thwart the nascent Antarctic effort with what Shirase described as its ‘frequent officious meddling'. And yet Shirase showed aptitude for fundraising, cutting deals here, seeking sponsorship there. He negotiated with the popular magazine
Expedition World
to advertise his polar activities, in return for the rights to publish the expedition's first reports.

Unlike his European counterparts, Shirase found it hard to obtain the sort of support from the learned societies that may have helped leverage further funds. Whereas the other expeditions of 1912 received the stamp of approval from their national geographical fraternities, Shirase failed to get the backing of the Tokyo Geographical Society. Given the parlous state of the expedition's funding, so dependent on public subscription, Shirase's scientific program had to be scaled back. Reaching the South Geographic Pole was the priority.

Not only this, but without official backing few professional scientists would risk their careers—or lives—on the proposed trip. Of the hundreds of applicants, only two of the men accepted could be said to have any sort of scientific background, and one of those had cold feet and fled the day before departure, leaving Terutaro Takeda, a teacher with a background in Earth sciences. Nevertheless, the expedition team obtained a serious amount of scientific gear, much of it for measuring the weather while travelling south and on the ice.

Things were not helped when the British expedition members Cecil Meares and Wilfrid Bruce visited Japan in August 1910, en route for New Zealand, with Scott's ponies and dogs. The Japanese press interviewed the men, and Bruce was reported as saying that without scientific experts any expedition south would have no value, and that the Japanese effort was a ‘mistake'. Whereas the local scientific community had been lukewarm, it now became hostile. Indeed, while the journal of the Tokyo Geographical Society would report details on the numerous planned international polar trips, both north and south, it did not mention a word of the home-grown effort.

There was some support from military quarters. An army general, Tsuchiya Mitsuhara, was disgusted with the scientific community and argued that, like his soldiers, scientists should ‘be prepared to die for the cause of their work' instead of favouring a ‘comfortable livelihood'. Similarly, in the House of Representatives Kokubo Kishiichi gave the profession a public dressing-down, saying: ‘in truth, no men are more feeble-minded than scientists.' But, Kishiichi said, Shirase's Antarctic expedition had no need for them anyhow. Ultimately ‘anyone can record meteorological conditions…and bring back fossilized things or indigenous wildlife specimens.'

If Shirase was going to counter his critics and avoid cancelling his Antarctic effort like the Americans and the Scottish, he had to leave with his team by the end of 1910—even if they were not fully prepared. In September, Shirase found a ship that would fit the bill. It was a wooden three-masted vessel, the
Daini Hoko-maru
, weighing just 204 tonnes. This was small compared to the others used in Antarctic waters: Amundsen's
Fram
weighed in at four hundred tonnes, while Scott's
Terra Nova
was seven hundred. Designed for fishing the northern waters of the expanding Japanese empire, the
Daini Hoko-maru
was only a year old and large enough for the planned twenty-seven men, supplies and equipment. There was only one problem: the vessel's captain was Gunji, Shirase's former leader in the north.

Time had not healed all wounds and Gunji was not delighted at the prospect of helping his former subordinate. Count Okuma stepped in, buying the
Daini Hoko-maru
for ¥25,000 and registering it in his own name. They renamed the ship the
Kainan-maru,
meaning Southern Pioneer, overhauled and refitted it with an eighteen-horsepower auxiliary steam engine, and buttressed it with iron plating.

The British enthusiasm for horses in Antarctica had not escaped the notice of Shirase and his team. The plan was to follow Shackleton's approach, and use ten Manchurian ponies to reach the South Geographic Pole. After all, Shackleton had nearly reached his goal; it was widely believed that if the horse Socks had not fallen down a crevasse on the Beardmore Glacier with most of the supplies, the team would have made it. But the
Kainan-maru
was too small for horses, and the team decided to switch to dogs. It turned out to be an inspired move, even if there had been little choice.

Preparations started straight away, testing the dogs' capacity to drag sledges along dirt tracks. Shirase was convinced, and the official report of the expedition commented, ‘A dog can pull one
and a half times as much as a man can on just one man's ration of food, whereas horses are comparatively useless.'

The day of departure had been set for 28 November, the same date Magellan had left Europe on his famous expedition around the world. The crew would re-provision in New Zealand and go from there to Antarctica. This was far too late to credibly reach the Antarctic and establish a winter base that summer, but the public did not know any better and remained upbeat about the enterprise.

The expedition members swore on a scroll ‘on which the vow of our intent was sealed with our own blood' at the official farewell ceremony, in front of ‘the milling throngs of tens of thousands of well-wishers'. But the
Kainan-maru
was not ready to sail, and few people turned up the following day, causing Shirase to remark it was the ‘most dismal sort of send-off ever accorded to any polar explorer'.

There was much to be nervous about—not least that the expedition was ¥10,000 in debt. ‘Skimming south like an arrow', though, the
Kainan-maru
headed for New Zealand, aiming to cross the equator by the end of December. Not everyone was convinced they would make it to Antarctica.

While the Japanese had been frantically preparing for the journey south, the rest of the world was oblivious. After crossing the Pacific, Shirase's team had their first major challenge: facing the international press. Nothing could have prepared the Japanese for the incredulity they faced in Wellington on their arrival, on 7 February 1911. To New Zealanders and to the wider western world, the Japanese plan did not make any sense. There were several expeditions making an attempt on Antarctica; they had all left civilisation by December to give themselves time to
work their way through the sea ice, establish a base on the icy continent and lay depots south for the following summer's work.

Scott had come through the New Zealand port of Lyttleton the previous November, while Amundsen had headed into Antarctic waters in January. Yet here were the Japanese turning up in New Zealand in February, with all their dogs dead from the Pacific crossing—most likely from parasitic worms. Perhaps most suspicious of all, they did not seem overly concerned that time was pressing.

With hardly any of the crew speaking English, confusion was rife. Rumours spread that the Japanese were spies; they were publicly mocked. Shirase later wrote, ‘The New Zealand press viewed our attempt with ridicule. The
New Zealand Times
was particularly poignant in its comments upon us. It remarked that we were a crew of gorillas sailing about in a miserable whaler, and that the polar regions were no place for such beasts of the forest as we. This zoological classification of us was perhaps to be taken figuratively, but many islanders interpreted it literally.'